


Everything (You Thought) You Wanted

by Rassaku



Category: Not/Love (manga & doujinshi)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassaku/pseuds/Rassaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Portrait of an affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything (You Thought) You Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place over the course of the doujinshi connecting Not/Love and Heat -- their aborted date in "Why We Live Together," the telephone call with Akio in "Demonic Conversations," and Hideki's arrival in "Brand New Lover."
> 
> I was driven to write this after repeatedly hearing Miyamoto fangirls express the opinion that "Daisuke really needs to leave his wife and hook up with Bun again!" 
> 
> ...Really? Let's consider that from Daisuke's point of view for a moment.

The sun’s already up by the time I get back home after my morning jog, sweating even though the day’s only just starting to get hot. I come in and head straight for the bathroom, past Sayako in the living room watching her incomprehensible morning cartoons, past the closed door where Michiyo is still asleep.

In the bathroom, I set the tap running and strip out of my damp t-shirt, then submit to the standard critical examination of my reflection. More critical with every passing year, it seems, the relentless encroachment of age that has started sprinkling gray in my hair, etching lines on my face, putting on weight around my middle that’s always harder to get rid of than it was before.

_What the hell do you think you have to offer him? What’s gray hair and an incipient beer gut, next to the parade of lithe, perfectly sculpted twinks that he has coming in and out of his bedroom?_

It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that I’m going to turn forty next year. Where did my life go, I wonder. I can account for all of it, but when taken as a whole it seems so much shorter than that. And how did I end up here? After all the fuck-ups of my youth, how did I manage to make it here—a married man with two kids, a steady job, and a house in the suburbs?

It’s perfect. It’s what everyone wants.

Except for the part where I’m chasing a twenty-eight-year-old ex-hooker, because on some level I’m still afraid of growing up, and with him I feel young again.

***

We’re in another fight. We’d made a date to meet, though he stands me up as often as not, and I was seconds away from packing it in and chalking it up as another loss when he strolled in half an hour late.

I was _glad_ to see him, damn it, glad that he’d come even though he was late. But I was also pissed from having already read the same newspaper twice, having endured the knowing, pitying glances of the waitstaff, that when he did show up the first thing out of my mouth was a caustic remark that I would have thought the better of, if I’d thought about it for even two seconds.

But the words are in the air before I can stop them, and Bûn’s never been one to back down from a fight, and now he’s pointing out that _I’m_ the one who asked _him_ out so suddenly, and who the hell do I think I am, that I expect him to just drop everything and come running when I call?

It sounds just like the big homo melodrama that it is, because Bûn has no reason to be afraid of people knowing, not the way I do. He lives for that sort of attention, and he’s getting it now, waitstaff and fellow customers both stealing avid glances at us, while politely pretending not to hear our fight.

“To hell with this,” I mutter. I slam out a handful of change to cover my coffee and then walk out.

As soon as I’m on the street I change my mind. I wish I hadn’t walked out. Because now I’m at loose ends for the evening, without Bûn to keep me company, and still sore over the fight, and I _still want to see him._

But pride keeps my back straight, keeps me from turning around and going back into the restaurant to apologize. I’ll call him in a day or two to ask him out somewhere, and he’ll say yes, and we won’t talk about it, because we never do.

***

But when I do call, it’s not Bûn that answers the phone, it’s Akio—his pretty, pothead friend Akio. And I can tell with the first words that leave his mouth that it’s not because he happened to be closer to the phone; he’s fucked Bûn and now he wants to gloat. Still, stupidly, I can’t keep myself from asking the questions that he wants to answer.

“Is he at your house?”

“Mm hmm.”

_You don't have the right to be jealous..._

“Is he spending the night?”

“Yup.”

_Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask..._

“Can I talk to Bûn?”

“Bûn? One moment please.” Like he’s a damned secretary.

And then Bûn’s on the phone and we’re fighting again and _goddamn it_ , I was calling to make amends for the last fight, not to let him run my heart through the wringer one more time. Then he’s about to hang up, leaving everything just as unresolved as it was before, but the worst is yet to come. I can hear them grappling with the phone, and suddenly Akio’s back on the line.

“Hello? Daisuke? Sorry, this is Akio again—Bûn says he’s going to break up with you unless you divorce your wife. You’d better decide who’s more important, hmm?”

He couldn’t have silenced me more effectively if he’d punched me in the gut. For a moment I can’t decide which one I hate more, Akio for saying it or Bûn for airing our dirty laundry in front of this clown. Akio hangs up, politely, and I’m left listening to the dialtone and struggling just to breathe through my anger.

 _What the hell do you know about responsibility?_ I want to demand from him. _It’s so_ _ **easy**_ _for you to sit there and issue ultimatums, because all this is just a lark to you. You’ve never had to worry about how your decisions might affect others because you’ve never had to grow up._

I hate Akio, I can feel it like a physical pain, and I’m jealous of him—because he’s young and gorgeous, uninhibited and unencumbered, everything I’m not.

And Bûn! I remember a time when he was heart-breaking in his lack of guile, when he wore his heart on his sleeve and offered me everything without demanding anything in return. I could never find the words to tell him I loved him then, and now that I can, he’s making me pay for it. I’ve told him time and again; he _knows_ how much I love him, how much I want him, and how much he’s asking me to give up for the privilege of having him.

 _Goddamn it, goddamn both of you._ Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don’t _want_ to choose Bûn? It doesn’t matter what I want, I have responsibilities I can’t just walk away from.

Eventually the sound of the dialtone penetrates the haze of self-pity and starts to be a nuisance. I turn off the phone and replace it on the handset, though it’s another couple minutes before I can work up the energy to go downstairs again.

In the living room Sayako is sprawled on her stomach in front of a muted television, ignoring it and fastidiously working on a coloring book. I take a seat on the couch and turn the volume on, flipping through the channels and looking for sports of some kind, any kind, I don’t care. Sayako picks up her tray, with her crayon pencils and her book, and climbs up on the couch to sit beside me. I let my hand rest on her head, staring blankly at the television.

I wonder if they’re having sex right now. I love Bûn to distraction, but he can be a spiteful bitch sometimes. I can see him letting Akio fuck him now just to get back at me, see it all too clearly.

_You don’t have the right to be jealous._

It doesn’t matter whether or not I have the right, I still am, jealousy so strong it chokes me. In my head I can see Akio’s hands on Bûn’s bare skin, hear Bûn moaning under his touch, and my vision goes red. _Don’t touch him!_ I want to scream. _He’s_ _ **mine.**_

But he’s not. Not anymore.

***

I don’t know what wakes me, but when I open my eyes it’s gray dawn outside and Michiyo is standing in the living room. Perhaps she made a noise. Sayako, long since asleep as well, is curled up against my side.

“I didn’t expect you to be at home,” Michiyo says, her voice oddly flat. If she ever catches me in bed with Bûn, that’ll probably be my line. “I thought you would have found someone to take care of the kids and gone out.”

I know what she’s implying, but I can’t even find the equally ambiguous words to counter her so I just shake my head tiredly. Then, impulsively, I pat the couch cushion beside me in an implicit invitation. She hesitates only a moment before accepting, settling against me awkwardly, as though we’ve never done this before. I put my arm around her shoulders and hold her close to me like I’m holding Sayako. I can feel some of the tension leave her body and I press my lips to her silky hair. She smells pretty and female, and nothing like Bûn.

You love her, I tell myself, but even in my head the words sound desperate and brittle. You loved her as much as you love Bûn, once.

Did I? I can remember believing that I did, but I can’t recall the immediacy of those feelings at all. I can’t remember what it feels like to be in love with her. Kouta, though, and Sayako… my chest tightens at the thought of never being allowed to see them again.

“I love you,” I say quietly. It’s true, but it’s not the same and not enough. “I’m not going to leave you.”

I can promise her that, even if I can’t promise anything more. Things like fidelity, or the grand passion that we once had. Wife on one side and child on the other—it’s the postwar dream, but all I can think about is Bûn in Akio’s arms. Michiyo just sighs and leans into me.

I close my eyes again, too exhausted to even fantasize about something else, to make it Bûn under my arm instead of Michiyo. I’m so tired of hiding, tired of lying to someone that I’m supposed to love. It’s on the tip of my tongue to confess, to tell her the whole sordid story and throw myself on her mercy. My first instinct is to think that she would forgive me, but then I’m not so sure. If I could promise her that the affair was over, then I think she could forgive me, but to tell her the truth and then let it keep going…

Because this affair _will_ last until Bûn decides to end it. These stolen moments hurt, but if that’s the only way that I can have him, then I’ll take them, and gratefully.

***

Of course, the treacherous idea does cross my mind on occasion. On increasingly frequent occasions, as a matter of fact— _what if I did leave Michiyo for Bûn?_ Surely we could work something out, right? I wouldn’t be abandoning them completely. Alimony, child support, I would make sure they were taken care of. I wouldn’t let them get turned out on the street.

Except the thought of having to tell Michiyo leaves me cold. She’s not like Ayumi, the first wife I left. She wouldn’t recover from it, decide she was too good for me, and move on. Michiyo’s already been abandoned too many times, I’m not certain that she would survive one more.

I can still remember the first time I held her, the exact moment when I realized that I was in love with this wild, desperately lonely girl—that I wanted to be _the one_ for her, the man who would love her and take care of her, not just one more person to use her up and cast her aside. _I love you_ , I’d told her fiercely. _You’re bright and beautiful, and I love you. Don’t ever believe that any of this was your fault—you deserve so much better, and I want to be the one to give it to you._

How could I have imagined that it would turn out like this.

She’s done everything she can to make me happy, to be perfect for me the way I once wanted to be perfect for her. She knows I’m having an affair but she doesn’t ask, doesn’t force the issue—because if she forced me to choose, then I might not choose her, and she would do anything to keep from being abandoned again.

She’s perfect, like she always was. It wasn’t her fault that she had lousy parents, then a string of lousy boyfriends, then me. It’s not her fault that the one I want is Bûn, in all his glorious imperfection. It’s still true, everything I said before, but the words ring hollow now— _It’s not you, it’s me. You’re wonderful, but I don’t want you. You’re perfect, but I’m leaving._

***

I’ve lost count of how many men Bûn’s fucking now. There’s me, of course, and Akio continues to make his presence felt. There’s also someone named Hide-chan, whom I’ve never met but called once while Bûn and I were out at dinner.

Bûn kept it short, but it was clear from the way his voice changed that they were sleeping together. He declined an invitation for that night, saying he already had plans, which was gratifying—less gratifying that he proceeded to schedule a rendezvous for the next evening. I ate in silence and tried to pretend like I couldn’t hear. He never calls me Dai-chan anymore.

“Hide- _chan_?” I inquired tartly after Bûn had hung up. I couldn’t keep myself from it.

Bûn at least had the grace took embarrassed. “I kept forgetting whether his name was Hideki or Hideya at first.”

I didn’t ask whether he’d since figured it out. Or whether he’d once been unable to remember my name, too.

There’s also a prissy fag called Hanapi—so nicknamed for the ridiculous stud in his nose—who’s come sniffing around a couple times when I was hanging out at Bûn’s place. Both times Bûn chased him off irritably, but not before Hanapi wheedled a promise out of him to meet up later.

And those are just the ones I know about. There’s a waiter at one of the cafes we frequent who’s always staring soulfully at Bûn. Bûn hasn’t noticed yet, and I don’t think the kid even realizes he’s doing it, but once they figure it out then it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be added to Bûn’s harem too. He’s so fresh-faced and innocent, and I wish I could tell him to run, to stay the hell away from this mess. Don’t fall in love with Bûn, he’ll only break your heart. I would know.

***

The next time I see Bûn, we don’t talk about it. We never do. If he was in the mood for ultimatums before, the fancy has passed.

I come to his apartment; we sit on the couch and trade snide banter about the lack of anything good on TV. He wants to pick a fight; everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like a challenge and I keep expecting him to send me home, but he doesn’t. I lay down, and after a while Bûn comes over to join me, stretching out half on top of me—the only way to fit both our bodies on the narrow couch—with a cat’s sense of entitlement. He goes to sleep in a boneless sprawl on my chest, his short hair tickling my chin. I don’t sleep, but I turn off the television so I can think.

Whenever we’re together I can hear a clock ticking in my head, counting down the seconds until the end. Because this affair can’t last forever—it’s volatile and impossibly precarious and I can’t even _enjoy_ having Bûn in my arms now, knowing that I’m going to lose him. Knowing that it’s only a matter of time until he leaves me like he did before, and this time it’s even worse because I can see it coming but I still can’t stop him.

_What do I have to do to make you mine again?_

If I told Bûn that I really would leave Michiyo and Sayako and Kouta to be with him, would _that_ make him stay? If laid it all at his feet, tried to frame in words just how hopelessly, pathetically in love with him I am, would that do it?

“I love you,” I whisper, feeling my throat close around the words. “And I’m so sorry—I told you that she meant the world to me, but I never told you that you did too.”

I’d thought that he was asleep, but when I speak, his breathing changes and I can feel his body tense.

“Are you still on about that?” he mutters, sounding drowsy and vaguely annoyed at being woken.

My jaw clenches and I feel shame prickling at my skin. I am a damned fool, a hopeless optimist. I’ve told him that I love him, over and over again, and he never responds in kind but I can’t keep from trying anyway. As if I could make up for all the times when I should have said it before but didn’t.

_He just doesn’t love you anymore. He doesn’t want from you what you want from him. Get over it already._

I give him a pat on the head, my fingers lingering in his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

He yawns around something that sounds like “Yeah.”

After a while, I close my eyes and try to sleep too.

**Author's Note:**

> I made up the names of Daisuke's family -- in canon it never even specifies how many kids he has, thanks to lack of plural-markers in Japanese.
> 
> I've actually met Kano Miyamoto in person, when I was the translator for one of her books that had gotten picked up for English-language distribution. We had dinner, I gave her a Japanese translation of _Swordspoint;_ she gave me [an autographed print](http://rassaku.net/pics/autograph.jpg) of a character I still don't recognize (though it is now my treasure), and a DVD I still haven't watched. She's very cute and she has no idea how brilliant she is, though I did endeavor to tell her.


End file.
